Distress and Destress
by December Writing Dragon
Summary: Nations have endured much, but that does not mean it doesn't add up. America notices something taking a toll on Russia and discovers his bosses at the heart of his stress. He is determined to provide Russia some relief, in spite of the odds and Russia's own stubbornness. RusAme / AmeRus oneshot.


**Distress and Destress**

The sun and clouds waged a persistent battle all day as the conference slouched on, rays of light occasionally peaking between the thick gray blanket, only to be smothered again. It helped, at least, in that there was no reason to cast longing looks out the window to pine for a stroll outside, a breath of warmth fresh air, rejuvenating sunlight. No, instead the weather reflected the mood of most nations present: restless, fighting for some brightness in their day when all the while the fog of responsibility and tedium hung all around.

In the beginning, America counted down the hours. Then as the sands drained through his internal hour glass, hours turned to increments of ten minutes: just ten minutes six more times, ten minutes five more times. Individual minutes: forty-two minutes. Seconds: just six-hundred seconds to be rid of this place.

But as it so often does, time acted precisely opposite of how it was wanted to. Even with this makeshift counting sheep routine, America was bored. He had other matters that took, in his opinion, much greater precedence over this tired old meeting: other matters both domestic and foreign. And so to indulge his more foreign interests, throughout the droning lectures of other countries who didn't want to be here either, America people watched. His was not the only wandering eye, he found. England's thick brows were furrowed in agitation as he cast short glances to a few seats over, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Following the line of his gaze, America saw that France, bless him, had found a seat next to the window and- cloudy day or not- what bit of light that spilled in was casting a tasteful shadow across his pensive, angular features. Elbow propped up on the table, head resting in his hand, he looked every part a philosophical thinker of old. Feeling a new set of eyes on him, Frances glanced over at America and winked before resuming his original pose.

Clever bastard.

Italy looked expectedly bored, fidgeting unhappily in his seat, the speed of his writing suggesting they were more of the doodling nature as opposed to actual notes. That was fine. Artistic master in his own right, Italy never created anything with half effort; the result was that even simple sketches looked like the framework for what would soon be a masterpiece.

Realizing he'd lost the flow of the current speech, America hastily returned his attention to the front of the room. But the tone and content of the briefing fast reminded him why he had lost focus in the first place, and again his gaze wandered. That was when he saw, in a sea of slouching or daydreaming or restless nations, Russia sitting straight up in his seat, every ounce of his attention focused ahead, fingers diligently typing along with every single word said.

 _Show off_ , America mouthed, hoping at least something would divert him. No response. Russia wore the same attentive, borderline agitated expression as before, looking for all the world as if the only thing that existed was the presentation. Frowning in disappointment, America turned away to finish the rest of this purgatory.

0o0o0

"You know, I'm not sure if I'm offended or relieved I don't get that look from you," America drawled as he and Russia strolled out at last, Russia checking three times that his notes had been saved properly.

"What look? If this is about how I greet Lithuania, I told him and I tell you- it is comforting smile."

"Debatable. But not what I mean. Come on, you weren't the least bit bored in there? Or was that for my benefit to see how I'm supposed to behave?"

Russia blinked twice. "I was just making sure I got everything down," he said finally, sounding almost tired.

America raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, but…we don't have to pretend it's actually interesting. I don't think half of what was said applies to most of the people there."

"It doesn't matter," Russia said stiffly, turning away and striding on. "We had to go."

America frowned. "You alright?" he asked.

"Fine enough."

That evasive answer combined with the lack of eye contact and hand fisted into his scarf set off immediate red flags. And the last time something Russia did set off red flags, he had changed governments.

"What's up?" America insisted, tone gentler now. One arm looped with Russia's, he set his free hand onto Russia's in a comforting hold.

"What is ever up, being a country?" A wry smile that might have been a grimace twisted his pallid features; they would have to fix that, America though suddenly. With summer starting, it was the perfect time to go out together and get some sun. "B- people being difficult, sometimes," he added haltingly.

Where had been a gentle smile turned once more into a frown. "Boss-type people?" America clarified slowly.

"People," Russia said in feigned nonchalance, about as transparent as a glass window.

Blue eyes rolled behind rectangular spectacles. "Come on, Braginsky, it's called venting. You've seemed down for a bit- one good round of this venting stuff and you'll probably feel better. Now that we actually have _time_ to be together," he couldn't help but add.

"My boss has kept me busy."

"I know. I know all too well," America retorted, drawing patience from some hidden well. "Someone needs a break."

As they turned onto a commercial street, Russia gave an emphatic shake of the head. "No breaks," he said. Thin lines carved into the corners of his eyes as that same fog of distress festered around him as it had been for at least a month now, as persistent as the clouds above them so determined not to let the sun through. "Not until things are fixed."

"What things?" Now they were getting somewhere.

Russia shook his head.

And just like that, they were back at the start. "Off limits?" America asked slowly, gold-colored eyebrow raised. For the sake of their relationship anytime conversations drifted into dubious waters, they simply deemed them off limits and redirected. It worked at least seventy percent of the time.

"Off limits." America's eyes drifted to catch the tell Russia insisted he didn't have: sure enough, a pale calloused hand was fidgeting with his scarf, rubbing the soft fabric with his thumb. America sighed. To confront Russia about the lie or let it go? His more inquisitive- England called it brash- nature wanted nothing more than to push for more information, more _anything_. But that incessant logical side he was subject to knew Russia too well, knew the man carried certain things he did not want America to know, did not think he would handle, always ready to be met with rejection or disgust. Through it all, America felt in his heart Russia had faced too much of that already and so, ignoring the part of him screaming to address this here and now, America nodded in acceptance, knowing pacing was a delicate thing for them, knowing he would probably have his answers as this probably would not go away.

And he was right.

Before the end of their dinner date, America knew without a shred of doubt Russia was being overworked in some way. Three times his phone rang and he leapt up and out of the restaurant to take it, tone formal and, at times, a little desperate. By the time Russia returned the third time this happened, America was slouched in his seat, the untouched slice of cake they were to share sitting on the table between them.

"Can we enjoy our date now?" he asked.

Mistaking America's tone as politely curious rather than disapprovingly expectant, Russia nodded with a smile. "Yes- enjoy date now," he echoed, settling back down. "I am surprised you did not have any of this." He noted the cake.

"I wanted to do _something_ with you tonight," America said slowly.

Russia's gaze flicked from their dessert to America's blue eyes, darkened slightly. "We have," Russia insisted in confusion. "We are out to dinner together. We wandered the city together."

"Together physically, yeah," America agreed. "But your boss has been third-wheeling us since we left the conference."

"It is important work. We all have it," Russia said defensively, a frown pulling at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, and most of us are generally allowed to handle stuff on our own time and, well, _on our own_. What gives? You hosting something soon? The FIFA World Cup's not until 2018."

"Nothing like that." Russia redirected his attention to the cake, beginning to dig in. "Things are just busy and there are things that need to be taken care of. And it is not just my boss," he added. "Other officials have been calling and have needed to be called."

America would like to say something about that. The last thing he wanted to do was address what he had thought for a while now, that Russia so desperately wanted to trust his bosses, that that trust was what helped leave him more hurt and confused and prone to lash out when they showed their first interest- like too many leaders in history- wasn't their people's happiness. But he needed something to believe in, to help know there would be that perfect happiness someday. And so he got defensive when America accused his boss of being the only perpetrator in spoiling their night.

It was all speculation, but friendship, rivalry and love helped show many aspects of a person's character. America was privy to more information about Russia by being all of those things than if they had ever just been one or the other. And so too was Russia about America. It was a terrifying thought, having so much bared before another, but no higher sign of trust existed. Perhaps that was how Russia tried to teach America some of his enduring patience when the latter became frustrated by a slight, by a hitch in any of his plans, by any blemishes in that perfect happiness he too sought for with as much fervor as Russia. This too will pass, he was assured calmly, with the same calm Russia mastered as he faced his own horrors.

Was America returning the favor by not letting this go? Russia might say he was not, but something in America's gut kept him from relenting, at least for good.

Sometimes that enduring patience let things fester, build up inside beyond the human spirit's ability to tolerate- even Russia had to have a limit sometime.

"I just think maybe you can tell him- tell _them_ ," he corrected, "to back off a bit. You've handled stuff before their great-grandparents were even conceived. They should know they don't need to babysit."

Russia's eyes remained fixed determinedly on the plate between them, hiding how warm the restaurant suddenly felt. "Right." The short grunt hung like a persistent fog in the air around them. The rise and fall of his broad shoulders accompanied a single deep, leveling breath. "I am sorry this interrupted our night, Fedya. Our next one will be better, I promise."

"I know." America flashed a small, bracing smile. Though it was dimmed slightly by the shadows under his eyes, Russia returned the gesture in kind.

0o0o0

Their "next one" was not as soon as either anticipated. Or, at least, not as soon as America anticipated. In the interim, they settled for video calls.

The video feed began early enough for America to see Russia peeling the piece of tape off his computer's camera lens.

"Hey, handsome," he said with a grin. Russia still looked tired but there was no mistaking the pleased look he wore when he saw America.

"Ah, there is my beautiful princess of the sun," he cooed.

"Well, that doesn't sound good. The sun princess might make her ice queen melt!" America shot back readily.

"Keep talking, Jones. Put the ice queen in a cold enough mood and she will freeze you where you stand."

"Not standing- sitting." As if that granted him immunity. America grinned.

"Stubborn as ever." Russia shook his head fondly. "Oh- look what I have." He picked up a handsome wood frame from his desk and turned it around for America to see the picture it held. It featured himself and America standing beside the crew of Expedition 1, a balance of professionalism and abundant excitement visible in everyone's eyes.

"No way! I saw people taking pictures but never heard back about getting a copy. Man, you have to send me one!"

"Already on the way," Russia said with a pleased smile. "Different sizes too, so you can do what you like."

"One in every room of the house? Sounds good." It was inspiring and sometimes a little alarming to witness their combined enthusiasm for space exploration and research.

"I expected nothing less." America heard the phone on Russia's desk ring. Russia shot him an apologetic look.

"Do what you need," America drawled, trying for an assuring smile. He was, after all, calling Russia on Russia's time, and they weren't on a date.

With that same grimacing smile, Russia nodded, muted their video call, and lowered the volume before answering the phone. America leaned back in his chair as Russia spoke, shifting his between his phone and his boyfriend. That easy smile from earlier had hastily fled Russia's face to be replaced by something more somber, tense, withdrawn. It was expressions like those America had not been on the receiving end for a while. Those masks meant to protect.

Those shields America had marched up to and demanded, "Let me in."

"And why would I do that?" the indignant voice behind the wall had jeered.

"Because you're cold under those barriers and I can warm you, we can be warm together."

And when the option of companionship had turned up so willingly in an eternity of isolation, Russia let him in.

Now, watching Russia take his call through the monitor, it was as if none of that had transpired. America watched as the tension weighing on Russia seemed to mount, watched the hunching of his shoulders-

He's curling in on himself, America realized. His stomach churned uncomfortably. He shouldn't be seeing this. It was Russia talking to his boss- apparently too engrossed in the verbal lashing to remember he was being watched. America wanted to look away, knew he had to, seeing this would have consequences. But what he saw left him transfixed. At one point, Russia finally opened his mouth to speak but stopped short, lips pursed, instead only answering in short, one-syllable responses. America saw his grip on the phone tighten, saw the mingling trepidation melt into agitation; the amethyst eyes narrowed as the teeth clenched, the internal coil of what he could tolerate tightened and tightened and tightened.

The call ended. The phone was replaced. Russia was standing, hands planted on his desk, glaring down at the papers, pens, pictures, cups of inane office supplies, flags. The usually tranquil round face was twisted into something darker.

In one sweeping motion, Russia knocked aside everything on his desk. Away went the papers, pens, pictures, cups of inane office supplies, flags. His shoulders rose and fell worse than ever, eyes shut tight, knuckles white from their place against the darkened, now bare, wood surface. The video call was still muted, but America could imagine clearly the ragged breathing hissing between Russia's lips as he visibly fought to regain control. This personal battle waged as Russia slowly, slowly composed himself. No longer hunched over his ruined desk, he rose once more, back straight, shoulders back, once more donning that proud cloak that brooked no confrontation. Except from the only one with remotely any leverage over him. And Russia considered any amount dangerous.

By the time he had calmed himself down, only his dismantled workspace was proof of what had transpired. America knew a moment of aching indignation, as he quickly looked down at his own cellphone; that Russia should be so ready to just shrug off whatever slight he had been handed was almost too much. But if that was too much, what should he call everything else that had happened to the man?

"America? Sorry for the interruption." Russia fiddled with the controls, returning sound to their call once more. There was a hesitancy with which he spoke and looked, apparently gauging how much America had saw.

Rather than assure him, America made up his mind then and there. "I'm coming over. We're having some together time- no bosses, no other countries, just us."

0o0o0

Deciding it was one thing. Getting Russia to consent was a whole other battle. They never did address just how much of his meltdown America had witnessed; they were each too focused on their side of the argument. To anyone else, going on a mental vacation would have warranted only mild bantering on what to bring and when to leave. But Russia and America were not anyone else, and it was they who turned out to be capable of turning a debate about a getaway into one of their most heated arguments that year. It didn't help that Russia seemed adamant about not admitting there was a problem. America admired his persistence and ability to march on, he really did, but at this point it wasn't making things easier for either of them.

Because it had been plain enough that day: Russia reached his limit. Anything after this would be striking into skin already rubbed raw and then some. Russia might like to think he could refresh his own resolve, but the fact remained some things simply didn't work like that.

"Excuse me for wanting some time with my boyfriend- for wanting to actually see the guy get a break!" America shot heatedly, fists clenched, drawing himself up.

Russia did not back down. He never did. "Some of us have responsibilities we can't walk away from," he snapped with a sneer. Why was it so easy for things to turn mocking between them? Mocking beyond the point of friendly teasing. This was their fate if certain things were not addressed. "Some of us need to be on hand and fix things. Some of us-" Russia's voice broke. He started again. "I want to, Alfred, I really do, but I…have things to fix."

"You keep saying that," America said, voice somewhat softer. "Fix what? Why does it have to be you?"

The muscles of Russia's jaw worked as he struggled to answer. The adrenaline of their fight had raised his temperature, drove him to tug his scarf down. America could see Russia's history carved into his neck as the larger country fought for an answer he did not have. "I do not know." And with that, he seemed to deflate.

America's eyes widened and less than a heartbeat later he was at Russia's side, arm wrapped comfortingly around him. "Exactly. There's no reason for all of this to be on you…Vanya…what happened the other day?"

Looking exhausted, grayed out even, Russia cursed softly. "I knew it," he breathed. The secret was out: America had seen. With a sigh so profound it seemed like Russia was trying to expel all his stress. "It doesn't matter, not any more. Things happen and then they pass."

"Can we talk about it?" America insisted, trying to be gentle but needing Russia to cooperate on this. He ushered for them to walk a bit.

"Alfred," Russia said tiredly, striding beside him. "Your persistence is going to drive me insane." America made no reply. Others saw Russia's shattered mental state as only that: broken pieces of sanity scattered to the wind. They did not see how Russia had stubbornly collected those pieces to stick them back together, cracks visible but still forming one coherent whole. "What, you want to hear about when the parent lectures the child? Should I be interrogating you about any time your boss speaks to you?"

"It's not interrogating." His voice was a little firmer now. America knew he was right in this, simply knew it. "It's venting. We're old, Ivan, older than anyone's memory. We can vent about when these flashes of existence try and tell us they know better."

Russia regarded him with evident bemusement. America knew why. The cynicism was normally Russia's area of expertise; that didn't mean America never indulged though.

"Fine," Russia said tersely, not looking away. "Since you insist…" Finally he faced forward. "Everything that goes wrong is my fault." The tenor of his voice was much softer than before, and for a moment America was not sure he had heard. "Always has been. Always is. For centuries. It makes a man wonder, when he is the common denominator for all his people's woes." His shoulders sank. "I just want them to be happy."

America watched him with mounting indignation. "Every single problem isn't your fault, Ivan, no matter what anyone tells you. You're not the one who makes final calls. We're reactions, we feel and live through what others decide."

"Not always," Russia pointed out, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. "We have power too."

"One single person isn't going to be the cause of every problem in hundreds of years of history."

"Thousand," Russia corrected him dryly.

America snorted in spite of himself. "I forget what an old geezer you are." His elbow bumped with Russia's, and it was with a delighted leap of his heart that America felt the gesture returned. "That makes my point even stronger. Sorry, man, I know you're proud, but you don't have that much power to cause trouble that lasts a thousand years. Shit happens everywhere at any time, and anyone who tries to convince you this is on you is delusional."

"But I _am_ the common denominator!" Russia exclaimed, facing America once more. There was an openness in his distressed gaze that told America he had broken through. "They are fleeting- I am constant. It has to have been me who mishandles things, doesn't it? Who is incapable of letting things be how they were envisioned?"

"Vanya." America's voice turned as soft as Russia's had been moments before. He stopped, stepping forward to clasp Russia's hands. "None of this is on you. You're their scapegoat- we're all such easy scapegoats for proud humans who don't want to face the fact that they didn't do their job right. That's all it is. You're a convenient excuse who will bare that responsibility and die with it before telling them where they can stick it. I'm guessing that's what's been going on. They've been railing on you?"

"I was blamed for something I was not even involved in, or aware of." Russia seemed to lose all fight in him at that moment, his hold on America's hands, though gentle, the only thing keeping him upright. "I had no role in any of it and yet…and yet I am the one who is inadequate and needs to do better and learn from this and think before allowing things to get this bad again." Wide eyes turned into narrow amethyst slits, teeth visible in a derisive sneer. It was an oddly comforting sight, to see and know Russia saw through that nonsense excuse at last.

America told him as much. "See? Even you know that's just a load of BS. Vanya, please. A break, that's all I ask. Where we just unwind and get you feeling better."

"I am fine." It came out almost as a reflex.

"Not buying it. And you'll see that I'm right if you just do this and try for me. At the end, you'll feel unrecognizable with how better things will seem."

The doubt never left Russia's eyes, but the resignation was all America needed as at last the larger country nodded.

0o0o0

As countries, the embodiments of all the accomplishments and leaps forward their people had made, there was no higher honor quite like showing others those achievements and natural beauties. America commenced their retreat by insisting on some tours around Moscow. To his relief after some final protests that this was all unnecessary, Russia relented, and it seemed as time passed he indulged more and more in the honor of showcasing his capital and its history to another soul. There was much America already knew from the centuries he and Russia had known each other, but the remarkable thing about living was that the fount of discovery was endless, and he was always pleased to learn more. Over the next few days they visited architectural wonders, historical landmarks, war memorials, palaces, tea shops, night clubs, train stations, and the like. America had held off on asking to tour Red Square, worried being in such close proximity to his workplace would dampen Russia's spirits again. But it seemed without the weight of his boss's reprimands hanging over him, Russia was up for most of what America asked of him.

Russia watched in open amusement as America bought a bit of everything from the Arbat, taking picture after picture every ten steps. "We will be here all day," he teased. "And you are falling right into their trap- their tourist trap, I mean. These are all cheap knockoffs compared to real items you should be getting."

"Well, I know you'll point me in the right direction and lead me right," America replied with a grin, snapping a picture of Russia as he spoke. "Hey, I'm helping your economy with these purchases, buddy, so I'll accept your thanks whenever your wounded pride is healed."

"So, never."

They had lunch in a _kommunalka_ , eating beside a nice elderly couple who reminisced about their younger days, complimenting Russia's historical knowledge when he mused right along with them.

The cosmonautics museum was a big success. America managed to maintain his silence as Russia boasted about Luna 2, the first vessel to touch down on the moon. And with Russia being on good terms with the curator, he and America had a chance to speak, where they discussed some installations that could be added and tours various space paraphernalia could make to this museum.

When they did head to Red Square, they allowed themselves to dissolve into an ongoing tour group with a bunch of westerners. Various languages could be heard from the tourists and tour guides alike as they slowly traipsed through the square.

"You would never know this used to be full of stalls," Russia mused, taking long, loping strides.

"No kidding?"

Russia nodded. "So many stalls, selling fish and bolts of fabric and spices, herbs, animals, combs, mirrors, thread, dresses, house kits."

"What?"

He smiled. "I got my woodworking ability from somewhere, Fedya." He paused and pointed to an empty spot on the square, just feet from where some university students stood working on a photography project. "I can see it so clearly. Walls and rooms already assembled and ready to be put together, new ones built each day. An entire house could be leveled one day and a new one in its place the next. So many wood structures, and we didn't even always use nails." The line of his finger turned to St. Basil's Cathedral. "Imagine that, but smaller, made entirely of wood. Not one single nail. That is Kizhi, a remnant of an old tradition, everything carefully fitted to stay up on its own. Wood keeps the insides warm better in the winter, you see."

America listened with rapt attention, feeling warmer indeed hearing the velvety happiness in Russia's voice. "Wow. Sounds incredible."

The structures they saw had a lot more stone than wood, but that did not mean it was absent or they were any less magnificent. They did run into a hitch, however, as their tour group headed for the walls of the Kremlin. Russia paused, regarding the departing group carefully. "Want me to show you some dachas?" he asked.

"I kinda wanted to stand on top of there," America said, nodding to where the group was waiting to be allowed to ascent the walls.

"It is not very interesting up there. No Great Wall, anyway."

"Don't get humble on me now, Braginsky, it doesn't suit you." America urged him forward with a hand on his back. "Come on, what happened to _It survived the Poles and the French, and the Nazis could never touch it_?" Together they waited and together they got to stand atop the walls. Russia stood straight as an arrow, eyes looking, unseeing, ahead of him. "What's up?" America asked over the multilingual chatter around them.

Russia shook his head.

America frowned. Sure, much had happened here, but much had happened across the city that Russia had calmly explained and shown him. Russia, normally so private about the crosses he bore, whose melancholy had left a thick weight in the air when he showed America the collar of scars circling his neck, feeling defeated by simply revealing them.

Answers came without questions asked.

The tour guide speaking English was translating for her charges. "It was on these walls Ivan IV would throw his victims over, watching them fall."

It didn't take a genius to put the two together. America turned to Russia, opening his mouth to speak but quieting as he looked down. The tips of Russia's fingers were placed firmly against the wall, his feet almost shoulder width apart, angled as if to maximize stability. Russia too looked down, saw where America was looking, and withdrew his hand.

"No way," America breathed in mounting horror.

Russia refused to meet his gaze.

"Please tell me no," America practically begged.

Russia cleared his throat. "Four times," he said stiffly. "The people were being disobedient to their tsar and he felt…they were a reflection of me rather than I a response to them, so if I died I might come back different. Better." He took a step away from the edge. "One was an accident, I think," he could not help but add. "He got worse after he lost Anastasia."

America shook his head, chest aching. Of course, one dangerous place to help Russia escape to would be his own head. Here again he was justifying, displacing blame. "Come on," America said softly, clasping his hand and leading him away. "Northern capital now."

The white nights of St. Petersburg kept them busy, for though Russia was used to the extended summer daylight, it warped America's sense of timekeeping, so their days were much fuller much longer. Except when it rained.

"Great," America grumbled, arms folded as Russia held an umbrella over them both. "And now we're wet."

"We are on a swamp, you know," Russia reminded him.

Swamp and skulls. The Venice of the North was the City Built on Bones.

Thunder rumbled overhead. "Guess it's time to wrap it up," America sighed disappointedly. He really wanted to see the walruses that sometimes came to the small strip of beach.

"We can go back to the hotel and if this clears up early enough you can meet the cats that live in the Hermitage," Russia suggested, knowing America's desire to pet all the animals of St. Petersburg. They were staying at the Astoria nearby.

"Okay!" America perked up quickly, grabbing the umbrella and hurrying off at a quicker pace.

 _Crack_!

Several yards away, a tree seemed to explore, sparks and bark and metal flying. Several people yelled, but no one had been nearby. Nearby the ruined tree hung an old-looking sign: Heavy bombing on this side of the street! Walk on the other side to stay safe!

"What the-"

"The lightning traveled to the shrapnel in the trees," Russia explained, looking on with a worried glance. "That must have been one of the few that did not get ruined during the siege. The Germans bombed the city relentlessly, circling it and trying to keep supplies from getting in. Some shrapnel is still embedded places." A darkness fell over Russia's face. "They destroyed every food production plant, to starve them all, every last one…the Savichevas are dead…everyone is dead." How easy it was for them to slip into that ever-growing place called memory.

"Ivan," America began as they stared at the destroyed trunk. "Come on." He guided his companion down the street as more thunder rumbled.

"Sorry," Russia said earnestly. "Some things come back harder than others."

"I know."

All too well.

0o0o0

America did not get to meet the cats that guarded the Hermitage from mice, or the walruses that liked to visit. Instead, he decided to go with his original plan and help Ivan get some sun and color.

The air kissing their skin was warm, a breeze sweeping occasionally through to keep them from feeling stifled. America had insisted Russia wear copious amounts of sunscreen and nobly volunteered to apply it. Over Russia's teases of America's impure intentions, he carefully made sure every bit of exposed skin was protected. Payment for his generosity took the form of a kiss that deepened with every second until Russia broke begrudgingly away because he could feel heatstroke coming on. America laughed, saying he was just simply too hot and Russia had not disagreed.

Away from anything upsetting, it seemed easy for Russia to lose himself in the atmosphere. He enjoyed the feeling of the sand between his toes, let water skin over his feet as he strode where the tides moved in and out, actually indulged America's requests for pictures without the usual huffing that he never looked good in pictures. It truly seemed that he was enjoying himself. The proof was tangible as the two laid stretched out on a towel beneath an umbrella, lips pressed together, tongues swiping languidly, hands exploring, always exploring, seeking new terrain. The damp cloth draped over Russia's shoulders bought them more time of heated kissing before passing out became a concern.

"How do you feel?" America asked, peering down at Russia's relaxed form. "Was I right or was I right?"

"Hmmm, you were something," Russia said, fighting down a smirk.

"Uh-uh, not good enough, Braginsky. Say it." He poked his side, only to have his finger snatched and drawn to Russia's lips.

"Must I?"

Damn those wide eyes, that imploring look that seemed innocent but was the exact opposite; damn those lips turned up in a victory Russia must have seen coming.

"Yeah," America's breath spilled hot over his neck. "You gotta."

A soft moan. "Afraid I might pass out first," Russia replied with a breathy laugh.

America smirked. That didn't seem like such an impossibility. "You can tell me tonight," he decided, swooping in for one final kiss. They lay like that for some time, the sound of the waves and gulls filling in the rhythm of their heartbeats and sleepy breaths. For the moment, they were away from it all.

Eventually, however, they did become prone to that aching habit none had ever fully shaken: contemplation.

"I always loved the water." Russia's voice was as distant as his gaze, perhaps off among the distant waves and open skies he was focused on, somewhere duties and history didn't matter. "It was how I grew- the Volga, the Don, the River Moskva, the Neva. It was how I survived- Lake Peipus, Lake Ladoga. Rivers, lakes, the sea. It's so beautiful, isn't it? The water is so gentle and strong. So much bigger than anything." A single breathy chuckle, carried away by the wind that ruffled his hair. "Bigger than me."

"It's freedom." America's voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "Those jade tides, salty winds, lashing rain. They're free."

At last Russia dragged his gaze from the water and the sky and the promising strength of the waves, the damp air, endless everything, everything that eluded control.

"Can we be too?" Four words, soft tone, deafening implications. Can we. Can we. Can _I_. Did relentless endurance sometimes need reassurance too?

Now it was America's tone to turn away, stare off into that sapphire eternity. Above, concealed by the warm glow of the sun, hang the other spangled sea they each sought to penetrate. It must be some sign of their values, that that which smothers even Russia and America in its enormity would be their sanctuary. Water or silence. Salt or stars. Drowning, drowning in either. Ignorant of time and allegiance and the vicious developments of mankind.

Can we. Can we. Can _I_.

So endless. Could the troubles of immortal hearts and memories drown the freedom of eternal spaces and seas and fresh starts?

Can we.

Hope did not have to be so far away. With immortal hearts and memories came resolve, as undying as their tethered souls. Had they not proven their resourcefulness? Times changed and they lived on to see it all.

Can we be free.

"Yes," America whispered at last. A warm hand clasped his, their fingers linked on the sand where, together, they felt the heartbeat of the world.

THE END

This sort of outgrew itself OOPS. Basically, I wanted something where we could explore Russia's relationship with his bosses and his outlook on life. The Russian spirit is stubbornly enduring, and so I see him as ready to shake off whatever is thrown at him because someday, some however distant tomorrow, it will work out. I also wanted a moment where he does reach his limit and lose it. America is smarter than most give him credit for; he is not so oblivious to how it wares on Russia. And he has seen him in many different capacities; they both have, and have a vivid understanding of each other not many others are privy to.

Ivan Grozny, Ivan IV, did throw victims from high up and was known for his paranoia that exploded exponentially since the death of his wife and true love, Anastasia.

A _kommunalka_ is a communal living space during Soviet times. A dacha is like a summer house.

The line "the Savichevas are dead, everyone is dead," is a famous line from the diary of Tatyana Savicheva, a young girl who endured the Siege of Leningrad, documenting the death of all her family until she herself died. A memorial depicts giant slabs with her diary's writing on them to immortalize her and the human cost of the siege, the deadliest in modern history where Hitler declared they would not use a single bullet on Leningrad, instead encircling it, shelling it, and starving its residents so it would be wiped from the map. During the siege signs were posted where there was heavy shelling and indeed some shrapnel is imbedded in places to this day, making lightning strikes a risk.

Much exploration of Russia as we know it was done via the waterways, rivers like the Don, Volga, Moskva and so on. Lake Peipus is where the Battle on the Ice was fought. Lake Ladoga is the site of the Road of Life; during WWII a bit of the lakeshore was still in Soviet hands, and in winter supplies was driven into Leningrad over the frozen lake water and civilians were evacuated over the ice.

Please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading.


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